


Radio Sweethearts

by addie_cakes



Category: Shadowhunters (TV), The Mortal Instruments Series - Cassandra Clare
Genre: Banter, Established Relationship, Flirting, Fluff and Humor, M/M, Racer!Alec, Spotter!Magnus, racing!au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-27
Updated: 2019-05-27
Packaged: 2020-03-20 01:36:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,021
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18982534
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/addie_cakes/pseuds/addie_cakes
Summary: “All clear, baby,” Magnus practically purrs into his headset, leaning forward in his seat with a sort of ease that is normally foreign to a spotter—he should be tense, like the other men perched too high in the air, whose jobs not only require immense caution and attentiveness but also factor into the difference between a trip to Victory Lane and an ambulance ride to the in-field care center.And yet, it's entirely impossible to be tense, especially when Alec's at the wheel.-Or, Alec is a racer, Magnus is his spotter, and they flirt over the radio, much to their team's chagrin.





	Radio Sweethearts

**Author's Note:**

> This is obviously inspired by Matt in that ridiculously good-looking Indy 500 getup, but since I'm a Midwest baby who knows too much about NASCAR, this is a NASCAR!au. Alec's number is based off the day of his birthday, not Blaney's 12 car, but we still stan a racer who follows Kat on Twitter (it's Ryan Blaney, he does).
> 
> The title is based off a segment on NASCAR Race Hub, but with a different spin. 😉

“All clear, baby,” Magnus practically purrs into his headset, leaning forward in his seat with a sort of ease that is normally foreign to a spotter—he should be tense, like the other men perched too high in the air, whose jobs not only require immense caution and attentiveness but also factor into the difference between a trip to Victory Lane and an ambulance ride to the in-field care center. 

And yet, it’s entirely impossible to be tense, Magnus notes, as he watches a red and black car, emblazoned with a large, white _12_ on the top and side of it, whip out from the third row of the lineup, bringing with it a line of cars. They’ve started a new run on the leaders, and as the car to the rear of the 12 gently brushes up against it, Magnus sits back with a knowing smile.

Another less-qualified racer, one whose handling isn’t quite as confident or as secure as the rest of the field’s, might have bobbled from the helpful shove, but Alec doesn’t. Instead, he uses the push to lead the line toward the front at a faster speed, and Magnus presses his lips together as he scans the track.

The sun is hot against his back, and Magnus is grateful for the baseball hat that shields his face from the insultingly harsh light. He wipes his brow and only manages to smear more sweat across his forehead, but he hardly minds. It’s hotter in the cars, he knows, and they seem like little ovens that cook their drivers for about three hours (assuming they don’t first get plowed into walls or spun into the turf) before releasing them to cooler air and swarms of fans and beautiful women and showers of Mountain Dew. If Alec can manage the high-stress and the heat and the tension of having his hands gripped against a steering wheel for so long, then Magnus doesn’t mind suffering in the sun for a little bit.

Especially when they win.

It’s a good day for Sunday racing, Magnus thinks. It’s bright, the stands are packed with fans who are actually on their feet instead of lulling through another boring race like they've been known to do, and the track stands in a nice, dark contrast against the white walls and the blue sky that blankets the field. It feels like a traditional summer day, like most people might wake up and rouse their families to go to church or go for a nice drive and then take an afternoon nap or pack up for a picnic. For drivers, and for their teams, however, these days are different—they smell like burning rubber and are too-loud, and they’re _stressful_ , but it’s the excitement and the adrenaline that keeps people coming back, week by week, to America’s true family sport.

“You’re all clear off one and two,” Magnus repeats in a smooth voice, still smiling. He's quiet for another few seconds, nodding appreciatively as Alec follows his instructions. “Right rear’s clear off turn three, go ahead, darling.”

What he’s watching for is the space Alec needs to make a clean maneuver for the lead. Alec’s had a fast car all weekend, qualified badly because he nearly scraped himself into the wall when he tried the high-line for a faster time, and it’s been a difficult time working his way back up to the front of the pack with a crowded start. Even cycling out of cautions has been difficult for Alec, and for all of Magnus’ expert spotting, he can’t help Alec to the lead more than offering advice about how to swing past the ugly-colored highlighter-yellow car with an electric blue _4_ on it. For the rest of the race, Alec has had to be careful, to listen to his pit crew chief tell him when to fall back onto pit road, when to start conserving his fuel, and when to begin pushing his way through the track in his quest for the lead.

The drivers curve around the track, interspersing as they choose between running the high side and the low side, some cars drifting behind as they hit a higher point on the track, their speeds slowing. Alec’s always been better riding low, and to pass the 4, he has to now. Without the assistance from the cars that’s fallen behind him, Alec’s got clean air, but he’s also without any sort of backup; if he falls behind, he could get swallowed up into the rest of the track, and it’s too late in the race to work his way through the crowd again.

“All clear, all clear,” Magnus sing-songs. As they come out of the turn, Alec’s pulled ahead of the lead car, though he still has the business of passing it. It’s an easy movement, a textbook slide job that secures the lead for Alec, and Magnus bites back a grin. “Now watch your left, he’s on your rear bumper.”

When Alec’s concentrating on a move, he’s always quiet. But afterwards, once he’s hit clearer air or even when he’s given up on gaining track position for the time being, he certainly doesn’t mind engaging in and returning a bit of that “friendly” conversation he shares with his spotter.

“You like that, baby?” Alec asks, his voice breaking through the radio. He sounds grainy, and Magnus sighs fondly. At the beginning of the race, Alec had been the careless idiot who had jostled the radio antenna a little too roughly, and now his voice sounds patchy, occasionally cutting out. He had fixed some of the problem during the last pit stop, but Magnus still has to focus closely to hear Alec.

Humming lowly, Magnus rests his elbow against his knee. He can see how it might be more stressful for a spotter to watch his racer in the front of the track—there are forty-two other drivers who’d love to see the 12 slide out of control or run out of fuel or speed into pit road and get a penalty or _something_ , but there’s this trust Magnus has in Alec, this knowingness that the young man has the race in his hands now, that allows him to breathe a little easier. 

“Oh, you know I’m not supposed to show favoritism,” he replies.

“I know you liked it.” Alec’s not remarkably good at flirty banter, but he’s comfortable speaking with Magnus. He likes the way that Magnus talks to him, how the older man doesn’t overwhelm him with useless information about the rest of the pack during a race. If there’s a particularly fast car that’s got the potential to break away from the rest of the field and make a move on the leader, Magnus won’t mention it until it’s close enough to pose a threat to Alec’s own track position. He knows how Alec is, how he’s laser-focused and decisive, and if it makes Alec’s mind stay unbothered by not being burdened with facts about the rest of the drivers, Magnus stays silent. It's been a game of trial-and-error with the two of them during their years of working together, but the more Magnus learns about his racer's personality and quirks, the more his fondness grows for Alec.

Shrugging, Magnus presses his radio and admits, “It was an impressive slide job. I’d like to see it close-up.” It’s a bold statement on his part, and if Alec had the freedom to sputter and stutter out a response, he might have, but once he’s in his ‘race-mode,’ as Magnus thinks of it, he’s just as confident as Magnus feels.

“Meet me in my hauler after this, and I’ll show you a slide job.”

“ _Baby_ ,” Magnus drawls, feigning breathlessness.

There’s a long pause, peppered by the sounds of whirring cars flying around the track, the occasional interference crackling into his headset, and before Magnus can worry that Alec’s being too quiet, he hears a hoarse laughter from the driver.

“Chief says we probably shouldn’t fuck over the radio,” Alec says, and Magnus can hear the roll of Alec’s eyes as he relays the news. He doesn’t seem bothered or embarrassed, mostly pleasantly exasperated, because that’s _definitely not what they were doing_.

Except, they want to. And they might, after this race is over, so long as Alec can find himself in Victory Lane and his car can pass the post-race inspection.

"Did you tell him it was for luck?” Magnus asks.

“I did.”

“And?”

“He said if I win, I can fuck whoever I want.”

Bobbing his head in a thoughtful but eager motion, Magnus chuckles and settles himself back into his perch, buckling down for the remaining twenty laps of the race. “Well, then, I guess we’d better win.”

* * *

 

It’s another twenty-three grueling minutes before the race is over, thankfully free of cautions and nail-biting restarts, and Magnus is finally able to stretch his legs, jumping out of his seat as the rest of the Alec’s pit crew celebrates another trip to Victory Lane. That car—that sleek and charming car—gets absolutely trashed during the burn-out, but because Alec’s team has more money than it can reasonably spend on a car, it doesn’t really matter.

It also doesn’t matter that Alec gets fountained in a mist of sickly green pop, the Mountain Dew cascading onto him just as if it came from a bottle of bubbly champagne. From under his baseball cap, Alec’s hair sticks to his forehead, coated in the sugary soda and sweat. His bright smile makes the skin around his eyes crinkle at the edges, and he’s _gorgeous_ , classically handsome, like an old-school driver who should be photographed under the bright fluorescent lights of a night-race track but is instead bouncing around with the rest of his team in the heavy heat and the setting sun.

His interviews go as smoothly as they usually do—people _love_ to talk to Alec. He’s got that strong New York accent, which makes him an oddity for this kind of racing. Normally, someone as dominant as Alec should have that sweet Southern twang, the echo of a racing family running through his veins which makes him more formidable, but he’s practically _posh_ in the racing world, and that makes him all the more endearing. Alec talks with his hands a lot, and while he’s usually serious, particularly after a difficult race, he has moments where he drops his guards in front of the camera and smiles or says something particularly charming that belies his natural sense of humor.

And everyone’s hearts melt.

Eventually, Alec is able to sneak away from the interviews, to jog his way back to his hauler, away from the flashing cameras and the spokespeople and even the rest of his crew. He’s not even to the third step up the trailer when he notices Magnus lounging on the fold-out couch, a teasing but unmistakably proud smile curving against his lips.

In about seven more steps, Alec crosses the distance between himself and Magnus, and just as Magnus stands, the taller man kisses him. He winds an arm around Magnus’ waist, smelling strongly of fuel and Mountain Dew and sweat, but the scent is strangely enough _so Alec_ that it’s comforting and familiar at this point. Magnus betrays himself by breathing in deeply—he’s pretty grimy himself, he can’t judge, though his nose inadvertently wrinkles at the strong smell.

“Told you we’d win,” Magnus grins as he recovers quickly, his ever-observant gaze—the very one that leads Alec in and out of lap traffic and guides him through wreckage and difficult passes every single week—not leaving the other man as Alec gently pushes him onto the couch. It creaks under their combined weight, and they both snort in response, amused.

For all the money Alec’s got, and for all the money his team has, Magnus hopes that he eventually decides to upgrade to something a little more impressive, sporty, and—most importantly—sturdy.

They have plenty more winning to do this season, and Magnus doesn’t trust the couch to hold them through all the victories. 

**Author's Note:**

> Such a quick piece to write—I've been watching the Coca Cola 600 and had inspiration, I had no choice. Let me know what you guys think! Hope you enjoyed!


End file.
